Driftwood

I was driving too fast and crying- which is not a good combination.
In addition to trying to see and steer, I was shouting out to God- which comes free with flailing arms and distorted faces.

You are good all the time!!!

You are near to those who draw near to You!!!

You do not give us more than we can handle!!!


I was shouting His promises back at Him. 
Trying to simultaneously spark Him memory -as if He had forgotten- and convince myself that THIS was truth, and not the crap staring me straight in the face. 

Because the crap feels overwhelmingly, suffocatingly, overpoweringly real.
But His truths?
His presence?

Not always.

I am trying, God! I desire to bring You glory! To be a good example of Your love. 
An example of Your grace. 
Look what Christ has done in me!
I once was lost, but now I am found!

But He felt too far away.
His presence...
His promises.

So I clung to them- not feeling them- but believing they are there anyway. 

Because God does not hide Himself to tease us.

So why are You hiding from me, God?
Or why does it feel so very much like You are?

How can it be that I praise You with my life:
with song,
with dance,
in humility,
in beauty; 
with joy...

And then I curse...sometimes I curse You. 
And I touch too hard and it hurts.
Myself. 
And others.

And the hatred I thought I took to the cross and burnt, returns.
In waves.
As tough there are embers continuously floating, looking to spark or sizzle.

Can they not all just sizzle by now, Lord?
Why do You allow them to simmer?

And the tears are too much.
Because it is too easy to feel as if you have gone crazy when you are crying out to the one who IS Peace, for peace, and yet you are wreaking havoc,
Because if feels safer than Safety.
My way, not Yours.

And there is no conscious rebellion.
I have not walked away from, denied, or turned my back on Him.
I have not said ENOUGH and turned to die.

But I have felt death.
It's false security.
It's lying tongue.
And it tells me that it is easier...although I have not asked for easy, just God's hand.
It tells me that it is kinder this way...although I know fully well it is a lie: blown-up and manipulated.
But it can feel true.

And I remember that feelings can be deceivers, too.
So there are more tears, because, if not a God Who feels close, or feelings which vary, or emotions which embarrass me with their bi-polar behaviors... then Who? or What?
What satisfies?
And is there is no satisfaction...then why?
Why try?
Why strive?
Why be in such pain and disarray?

And when I am entirely honest, I feel like God has neglected His promises- which is kinder than saying I sometimes think He has lied. 
And every good-Christian-girl ember of me resists this.
I know better; it both chastises and encourages me.

And I lie when I sing that... He has never let me down... He is enough... It is well with my soul.

It should be enough.
I want it to be enough.
I think it,
try it,
state it,
remind myself of it,
denying anything other,
but, when I am truly honest....
it is like telling myself it will all be alright...in time ...in some far-away place.
But not now.
And that is terribly depressing.
And such a heavy weight.
Like a bench-press gone wrong.
The weight, sitting so stubborny on my chest.
My heart...in pain.
My lungs...beginning to fail.
And help seems like a distant memory.
A exercise-accountability-partner gone astray.
I look, but see no one.

This is all so terribly depressing.
I know.
And most of it is a lie.
A "Christian-lie"- one I know is a lie, but only because I have studied and loved and chased-after God.
Because, those in the world without the hope of Christ are stuck believing the lie.
What choice do they have?

And if my burden is this deep with the hand of God to comfort (whether or not I feel it), then what becomes of those with no hope?

When I was shouting... and crying... and driving way to fast... I had a choice.
To believe even though I could not feel.
Could not see.
Or to turn and run.
To embrace the lies that this life was too hard and my sins were to much.
That I was too ugly.
To far gone.

In that moment, all this mellow-dramatic/over-dramatic, long-winded, emo behavior seems like all I can muster. Like this is the apex of me, and it is a mess.

And I am a sinful person.
And I can be ugly.
But neither of these define me.
And I chose to get out of bed.
Get dressed- and dressed-up.
Sing the songs of praise which feel slightly phoney being that this pit is not very far behind me. As if I am fearful that I will be singing as I stumble backwards.
The pit, grinning at my misfortune.
Reminding me of my unworth.

But You come after me.
Jesus.

And I can deny it.
And not feel it.
But I believe it even when it seems like a lie.
Like the one, solely, promise God has failed to keep.

Even in my hurt, I can believe that God has forgotten me, but no the world.
I can believe the beauty in another and deny it so often for myself.
Because it is me who is is distress, fighting to focus on the truth.
He is in control.
An it is me who is unsteady,


Feeling like driftwood,